The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Okay, now what?

So I just found out that Celia and Ophelia are a couple of B-list super-crooks named Persuasia and Amnesia. What do I do about it? Amnesia—Ophelia; I have a hard time thinking of the two of them by their super names—wiped me so thoroughly that I didn’t even remember their names until—well, you’ll see. I’ve only put them in in what I’ve said up to now because they came back to me when I got my memories back. But I’ll get to that.

I go back into the library, find the book I’d been reading and check it out. Yes, I do have a library card; unlike some of the tough-guy detectives you read about in books or see in the movies, I like to read in my spare time, when I have some. I start looking through the Heroes section.

I cross off the real big-leaguers right away, Omniman, Gloriana and so on. They’ve got bigger fish to fry than a couple of low-powered scam artists. I start looking for second-tier guys, or gals, with psychic powers who might be able to keep the blondes from messing with my head any more than they already have and maybe even get my memories back.

I nix the Swami. He’s one of the good guys, all right, but the book hints he’s got quite an eye for the ladies. The spellbinder sisters might be able to sucker him even without using their powers. Then there’s Madame Psyche, but even I know she’s retired and doesn’t see anybody, nobody seems to know why.

The Magician? No, not him either. He’s got low-level magic—the real thing, the book says, but not top of the line—and telepathy, but it doesn’t say anything about projecting thoughts, just reading them, and I need someone who can put up a screen or something to keep the girls from playing their trademark games with me again.

Finally I see one who might be able to help: the Gypsy. Her write-up says she can see the future and the past in an actual crystal ball and can read minds and hypnotize people. I don’t think I want to be hypnotized—I’ve had enough of being controlled—but it also says she can put up blocks to keep other people from doing it, and undo posthypnotic suggestions too. I’m not exactly sure that what the blondes do is regular hypnosis, but I’m running out of options. The Gypsy it is.

I’m kind of surprised when I get to her place. It’s just an ordinary three-story brownstone. The only thing unusual about it is the round window with curved panes on the top floor. The book says she has it all to herself. Apparently she’s too spooky for other people to want to live there. She lives on the first floor, and I don’t want to know what’s on the second and third.

I’m even more surprised when she comes to the door. I was expecting to see some bent-over old biddy, but she’s close to my age give or take a couple of years and pretty good-looking, with dark brown hair, brown eyes and a good figure. Why is it that so many supers, good and bad, look better than most regular folks?

Well, I tell myself, it doesn’t matter. I open my mouth to say who I am, but she beats me to it. “Well, Mr. Shawn, come on in,” she says. “I know why you’re here. I think I can help you.”

So I come in. I can’t help thinking of the line from the movie Dracula, “Enter freely and of your own will.” I shake it off, but the place does have a spooky feel.

So we go into this room. The lighting is low, but not too low. There’s a couch with a reading table next to it, with several books on it. Bookshelves line one wall. In the center of the room is a small round table surrounded by several chairs, and on the table is an ordinary-looking crystal ball. So far it looks like a pretty standard setup for a fortuneteller, one who’s making a fair amount of money.

“Sit, sit,” urges the Gypsy, waving a hand at one of the chairs. I sit. She takes the chair opposite it.

“Now,” she goes on, “I must establish a link with your mind if I am to assist you. Look into the crystal, please.”

I look into the crystal and she goes on. “Keep looking into the crystal. Deeper, that’s it. Look deeper until you see a bright five-pointed star at the center of the crystal. Deeper, yes that’s it.”

So I look. I keep looking. I start to feel as though I’m falling into the crystal, deeper, deeper. And then I see the star, just as the Gypsy said. It’s beautiful. I can’t look away.

“You see the star now, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question, just a simple statement of fact.

“Yes,” I answer. “I see the star.” It was true. I did see it, even though I knew it wasn’t there.

“Good,” comes the response. “Now just keep looking and let yourself fall into the star, into the brightness of the star. Forget about everything but the star and my voice. Nothing else matters right now.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Nothing else matters right now.”

“Very good,” the Gypsy says. “Now I am going to build the shield you need, the shield which will keep others from tampering with your mind. I am going to build the shield and I am going to return to you the memories which were hidden from you.

“For me to do these things, I need you to sleep. You are falling asleep, deeply, deeply asleep. But you will still see the light of the star and you will still hear my voice. You will do as my voice tells you to do. You will believe everything my voice tells you. Do you understand, Mr. Shawn, and will you follow my instructions?”

“Yes,” I hear myself say. “I understand. I will follow your instructions.”

“Good, Mr. Shawn. Very good.” The Gypsy’s voice is soft and soothing. “Now sleep. Sleep until I awaken you.”

I fall asleep.

I wake up to the sound of fingers snapping.

I know it must have taken some time for the Gypsy to do what she said she was going to, but it feels as though I’d fallen asleep just a second ago.

I’m about to say something, but suddenly memories crash into me like a tidal wave. I remember going out to old man Comstock’s place, meeting him and his two “caretakers”—finally I remember their names—and being basically bamboozled through the evening and then into bed with them. I remember how Celia and Ophelia rode with me back to the office, and how Ophelia wiped my memory.

Saying I’m angry doesn’t cover it.

And then more memories come to me, of what happened after the Gypsy put me to sleep.

Yes, she brought back my memories of my visit to Comstock’s place. I’m guessing she probably put that mind shield in place too, although I can’t tell. But after that she took me for a ride in bed. The sex was great, but I’d rather not have been hypnotized into it; the girls did enough. It’s kind of humiliating to be used like that. At least she let me remember it—but I can’t help worrying about whether there’s anything else she might have done that I don’t remember. The hell of it is that I might have gone to bed with her of my own free will if she’d let me know she was interested. Unprofessional, I know, but in my line of work such things do happen sometimes.

“What do I owe you?” I ask, feeling my face heat up.

“Nothing,” replies the Gypsy. She smiles; for just a moment, it’s a smirk. “I have all the money I’ll ever need. Consider us even, and if you ever need my help again, don’t hesitate to come back.”

I nod. I wonder briefly where she got all that money. Then I remember her writeup says she can see the future. Maybe she’s playing the market or something. Well, it’s none of my business. The Gypsy escorts me out.

Heading for my car, I shake my head ruefully. The woman may not have wanted any money, but she certainly took payment.

At least now I remember what happened to my missing time. And if the Gypsy was telling the truth—and I have to admit she never actually lied to me—and her powers are all they’re cracked up to be, I can go back to Comstock’s house and finally get that interview. Except it occurs to me that maybe I don’t have to. I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on there now.

The trick will be getting evidence that’ll stand up. My word won’t be enough for the police department’s Special Crimes Unit, let alone a judge.

I think of Kendall, Mr. Comstock’s money man. If my suspicions are correct, he’s the one who’ll have paperwork that’ll at least lay out a fraud case good enough for an indictment. At the least, seeing financial papers with the girls’ names on them should raise a cop eyebrow or two, maybe enough for the department to assign officers better equipped than I am to deal with supers, even low-level ones.

Kendall’s office is on the top floor of a twenty-story office building on Central Drive. When it was built it was the tallest building in the city. I take the elevator up and present myself at the reception desk. I’m in luck; the gal on duty says Kendall is in and he’ll see me. I find myself wishing I had to wait awhile; she’s, let’s just say, very decorative, in a cool businesslike way.

She lets me in. I take a quick look around at the fancy furnishings and can’t help comparing them to the beat-up stuff in my office. Not to mention how big the place is; about four of my office would fit in it. It even has its own restroom.

I focus on the big redwood desk right in front of the door. Kendall is sitting behind it: trim, fit, fifty-something with graying hair only slightly receding, wearing a suit that probably cost more than every piece of clothing I own. Maybe double.

“Well, Mr. Shawn,” he says, “why are you here? And make it quick. I’m a busy man.”

I explain. Kendall listens, frowning.

“I see,” he says when I finish. “So what you want is for me to let you look through a client’s confidential records for evidence that a couple of—of ‘super-villainesses’”—I can hear the scare quotes—“are bilking him using their, ah, ‘powers.’” His frown turns into a full-fledged scowl—“If that’s true, why didn’t they go after me instead? I’m the one in charge of his accounts.”

I don’t say it looks like maybe they already have. I don’t think he’d buy it, and he’d probably order me to drop the case. I’m in too deep for that, and besides, there’s my payment to consider. “Sir, if you’ll check, from what I’ve found out already they’ve talked him into signing papers putting their names on his accounts.”

“Nonsense,” he huffs. “If he signed any papers like that, I’d have been there. And I’m sure I’d remember it.”

Not necessarily, I think to myself. “Humor me. Just look through the file. You don’t have to show it to me, just let me know if you find something.”

“All right,” he says at last, “I’ll do it. But you’d better be right.” He presses a button on his phone. “Gladys, bring me the Comstock file.”

We wait. Finally a tall, cool blonde in a woman’s business outfit comes in with a cardboard box. I wince; the box is full. I hope it’s well organized. If it isn’t, Kendall will lose patience and kick me out before he finds anything. Assuming, that is, that there’s anything to find. Celia could have talked him into putting the incriminating documents somewhere else before Ophelia erased his memory of their little visit. I just have to hope she didn’t.

I’m in luck. From the little I can see, the file is arranged with the most recent documents on top, nicely and neatly, and the stuff I want Kendall to see is fairly recent. I can tell when he finds it; his face turns gray. I’ve never seen that color skin before, not on a live guy anyway. It looks like I was right—the girls got the old man to sign the papers here in Kendall’s office while Celia fogged his mind so he wouldn’t see anything was wrong, then Ophelia just made both guys forget all about it.

I figure the girls worked on old man Comstock for a while before getting him to sign over basically everything he had. Maybe it took awhile for them to get the kind of control over him that would let them basically steal everything he has. The only question is why they didn’t just cash out and take off.

I think about it. Maybe, I decided, trying to do that would have raised too many red flags, more than the girls’ powers could handle. Maybe it would have put them on the run again. So maybe they decided it was better just to stay where they were, string the old man along and bide their time, maybe even “persuade” him to give them everything in his will. I didn’t think they’d try to hurry him along to his final reward; nothing in their entry in the book suggested they’d go that far. But him giving them everything when he died would cut Beryl out, which maybe was why she hired me in the first place. Well, that wasn’t illegal, and I can understand her not wanting to lose it all to a couple of gold-diggers, super or not.

“Do you mind if I mimeograph these papers?” I ask. If I’m going to go to Special Crimes, I’d better have something to show them. He’s silent for so long I worry about his answer, but finally he nods. “My secretary will do it.” He presses a button on his desk and says, “Diana, come in, please.”

The cool blonde comes in, and Kendall tells her what he wants. He hands her the papers and she walks out again. After maybe fifteen minutes she comes back with the papers and a large manila envelope. She hands the papers to Kendall, who puts them on his desk; I figure he’ll put them back in their proper place in the Comstock file after I leave. She hands the envelope to me; it’s bulky, I figure with the copies. Kendall thanks the blonde—Diana—and she leaves. I thank him for his time and leave with the envelope.

So now what? I’d confirmed Miss Comstock’s story. Celia and Ophelia—Persuasia and Amnesia—really had gotten their hot little hands on old Bart’s money, or at least set themselves up to get their hands on it any time they wanted. Having him give them cash and buy them “presents” must just be their way of making things look at least semi-legit. But how do I pry him out of their clutches?

I get an idea. I don’t like it, but I don’t see any alternative.

So here I am at the library again, looking for info on how the girls could have been sent to jail before and then kept there when Celia could just talk their way out of an arrest and Ophelia could make the arresting officers forget they’d ever been there.

The answer, when I found it, was blindingly obvious: their powers work a lot better on men than on women. Apparently they could bamboozle both sexes, but it took them a lot more work to get real control of a dame and Ophelia’s powers couldn’t wipe a woman’s memory as well as they could do to a man’s. Female cops could handle arresting them; female guards wouldn’t just let them out and forget they’d ever been there; a woman judge and an all-woman jury could try them and a women’s prison could hold them. Trouble was, the whole chain from arresting officer to court to prison had to be all women or they’d get away, and that was hard to arrange. Sooner or later a man would come into the picture and that would be that. I’m surprised they ever made it into prison at all, never mind served out a sentence.

Never mind. What’s important is that they can be put away. And thanks to the Gypsy—at least if her mind shield works—I might be able to do it myself. I’ve had an idea.

I get back to the office and call Beryl Comstock to give her a progress report. Unsurprisingly, she’s less than happy.

“This is crazy,” she says. I don’t argue. It is crazy. It just happens to be true. I wait, and after a minute or so of yelling that I’m nuts, that I’m making it up, that she should’ve hired somebody else, she calms down. “What are you going to do now?”

I tell her what I’ve come up with. She thinks it over quietly, long enough that I start wondering if we’ve lost our connection. Then she speaks up: “It sounds as if it just might work. I can help you; I’ve got connections downtown.”

We talk a little more. Finally I nod and say, “Sounds like a plan. Let me know when you’ve got things arranged. I’ve got a couple of things to pick up myself, just in case.”

So here I am again, driving up to stately Comstock manor. This time, though, I’ve got protection—and backup, two female police officers, just in case the protection doesn’t work. But I have this funny feeling that there’s something I missed.

I arrive, press the button at the gate and announce myself. The gate opens and I walk up to the house, the two lady cops flanking me. I use the knocker and the doorman lets us in. “Mr. Comstock and his nurses are awaiting you in the parlor.” I remember the way and lead the cops into the big room. I’m not prepared for what I see when I go in.

There’s Comstock, all right, in his wheelchair, looking about three-quarters into la-la land. I look for the girls, and both of them are standing in the far left corner facing the wall, arms at their sides, not moving.

What the hell? Something’s not right. It’s like they’re hypnotized.

Then I see the fourth person in the room. It’s the Gypsy. I look around the room again, and sure enough, there’s the crystal ball, sitting on a little square table I vaguely remember from last time, though it’s been moved from left of the couch to in front of it. There’s a chair pulled up to it facing the couch.

She speaks. “After our little chat, I decided I’d take matters into my own hands.” She gestured at Celia and Ophelia. “You’d told me enough so that I knew what to expect. I came here with my crystal and persuaded these young ladies to let me tell their futures.” She smiles. “You can guess the rest. Once they were under, I told them they’d been bad girls and ordered them to stand in the corner and then to think of nothing until they heard me tell them punishment time is over. And as you can see, there they are, all wrapped up for you. After I’ve given them some final orders, I’ll wake them up and your policewoman friends can take them into custody. I’ve even given them a suggestion that when they wake up they won’t be able to use their powers.”

“How long have they been like that?” I ask.

The Gypsy laughs. “Oh, not so long,” she says. “I’ve been watching you. I knew when you’d be coming here and made sure to arrive only a couple of hours before you did. I represented myself at the gate as a doctor for Mr. Comstock to get myself let in. As you can see, I’ve dressed for the occasion.”

So she was, decked out in a modest short-sleeved blouse and jacket, equally restrained matching skirt and low-heeled white shoes. The only things at all provocative she had on were finely-meshed fishnet stockings. She still looked pretty good, I thought.

“I’m a little embarrassed at how she’s upstaged me. I’d come out ready to face the blondes, expecting them to try to put their special double whammy on me, and she was basically delivering them on a silver platter.

“Celia. Ophelia.” The Gypsy’s voice is soothing. “Punishment time is over. Turn around and hold out your hands.”

“Yes, mistress,” they chorus. I wince at the corny phrase, but just the same they do as they’ve been told. The lady officers with me handcuff them.

“You may put your arms down now, girls.” The Gypsy’s voice is calm and soothing. The girls obey, letting their arms drop in front of them, wrists held together by the cuffs they’re now wearing. They stare straight ahead, vacant smiles on their faces and nothing at all behind their eyes.

The lady cops look weirded out. I know how they feel. The Gypsy sees, and smiles. “I tell you what,” she says. “How would you two like your fortunes told? If you know anything about me, you know I really can see the future.”

The officers look at each other and nod. “Sure, why not?” one of them said. The Gypsy gestures toward the couch and they sit. An alarm goes off inside my head and I’m about to say something when the psychic turns to me, holds a finger up over her mouth and whispers, barely loud enough for me to hear, “Shhh. Stay.”

Suddenly I can’t speak. I can’t move at all. I can only watch. I realize that just as I’d worried before, the supposed super-heroine in front of me had planted some suggestions she hadn’t let me remember.

She sits in the chair. “Now officers,” she directs, “I need you to look directly into my crystal ball.” The lady cops do. They don’t suspect a thing, and I can’t warn them. “Keep looking into the crystal, yes, that’s it, look deeper, deeper, feel yourselves being drawn into the depths of the crystal, deeper, deeper, until you see a bright blue star. When you see the star, tell me. Deeper, deeper now. . . .”

After maybe half a minute, the lady officers chant in unison, “Yes. I see the star.” Neither one seems aware that the other is even there.

“Very good, officers.” The Gypsy nods. “Now just sit there looking into the crystal, falling deeper and deeper into the beautiful blue light of the star within it. Think of nothing but the light, notice nothing but the light until I say the word which will awaken you.”

Unprompted this time, the officers chant, “Yes, mistress.” The Gypsy smiles.

Turning to me again, the Gypsy chuckles deep in her throat and says, “Go. You can move and speak now, detective. Macadam.” I don’t remember telling her my first name, but after what’s just happened, it doesn’t surprise me. “Come with me.” She puts a finger under my chin and tugs gently. I let her lead me as though I’m on a leash. I realize I’m back under hypnosis, but it doesn’t feel like it: I’m wide awake, but I know I’ll do whatever she wants, whether I want to or not. Dance, puppet, dance! I think, half hysterically.

She leads me into the same bedroom where I spent that wild night with Celia and Ophelia. I know what she wants and I want it too now, desperately, even though I’ve still got enough working brain cells to know I shouldn’t. Another buried suggestion? I don’t know and I don’t care.

I undress and stand there naked, watching while she peels out of her clothes too. Then I climb up onto the bed, still under her control, and she climbs up too, straddling me. There’s what feels like a pop inside my skull, and I suddenly realize I can move on my own again.

My body knows what to do next. Held down by the Gypsy’s hands pressed against my shoulders and her legs clamped around my thighs, I start bucking, thrusting into her. At last I come: my body spasms, teeth clenched, eyes closed tightly, fireworks behind their lids. From somewhere far away I hear a a man’s voice, and then a woman’s, crying out in ecstasy. Then I’m floating, slowly spiraling down like a falling leaf, completely relaxed, thinking about nothing in particular. I hear the woman atop me speaking, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. It doesn’t seem to matter, and after a second or two I stop trying. I drift away. . . .

Someone is gently shaking my shoulder. I open my eyes, aware of my surroundings once more. It’s the Gypsy.

“That’s right, Macadam,” she says in that soothing voice. “I can’t let you sleep any more. You’ve got business to attend to, after all. The two female criminals I helped you capture and the policewomen who came with you are all still hypnotized in the parlor. It’s time for you to go.

“You’ll get dressed now. Once you’re dressed, I’ll take you back to the parlor and awaken you and everyone else. You and the officers will take Celia and Ophelia into custody. Then you will all leave.

“The policewomen who came here with you will remember arresting Celia and Ophelia, but will not remember anything about anyone being hypnotized or about me leading you away, and won’t notice how much time has passed since you all got here. Celia and Ophelia will remember only that when you and the officers arrived they tried to get away but suddenly discovered their powers didn’t work and that the officers handcuffed them. They won’t notice how much time has passed, either.

“You and you alone will remember what really happened here, but you will speak of it to no one. There is only one thing you must forget.” The Gypsy smiled.

“Sometime in the future I may call you. When I do, I will say your full name, Macadam Shaw, and when you hear me say your name, you will relax and obey any suggestions I give you until I release you. But when you leave here, although you will remember everything else that happened here, you will forget that I told you to do this. You will forget, but you will obey. Say ‘Yes, my Gypsy’ if you understand my instructions and will obey them even though you will not remember my giving them to you.”

“Yes, my Gypsy.” The words come out all by themselves. I can’t stop them and I don’t want to, even though I know I’m really in trouble.

“Very good, Mr. Shaw. Now come with me.” The Gypsy puts one finger under my chin and tows me out of the bedroom and back to the parlor. When we get there, she looks at me, holds up one hand in front of my face and snaps her fingers, and suddenly it’s as if the world comes back into focus when I hadn’t even noticed it was out of focus. I can tell I’m not hypnotized anymore. Besides me, only the Gypsy and Mr. Comstock aren’t, and Comstock is asleep.

From where I’m standing, looking into the room, I can see everything, and it all works just like the Gypsy said.

She wakes up Celia and Ophelia first. “The jig is up, girls.” The blondes blink and I can see awareness come back into their eyes.

Celia looks at her handcuffed wrists. Her eyes widen and she looks at me. “Mr. Shaw,” she calls out, “please take our handcuffs off. We’ll be good, I promise. Please, they’re so tight! They’re hurting me! Pleeease?”

It doesn’t work. I heave a sigh of relief. I just go on breathing steadily. The sexy scammer’s eyes widen even more as she realizes it wasn’t a fluke that her power didn’t work on the lady officers. At least, that’s what she remembers happening, and who am I to say different? Ophelia looks at her and it’s obvious she believes her own power won’t work either, even though she hasn’t had a chance to try using it. They’re caught, all right, just as the Gypsy promised.

The officers are next. After delivering her suggestions about what they’re going to remember, the Gypsy leads them gently back to reality.

Comstock, bless his ailing heart, has slept through the whole thing, slumped in his wheelchair dressed in pajamas and slippers. I gently wake him up and when I’m satisfied he’s fully conscious I tell him the whole story—what I’m allowed to tell him, anyway.

“This can’t be true!” he sputtered. “I know those girls. They couldn’t be—!”

“They are,” I insist. “In an hour or so, call the police station”—I give him the number—“and ask for the Special Crimes Unit. The operator will transfer you and they’ll back me up. Your ‘nurses’”—I make quote marks in the air with my fingers—“should have arrived by then.” I hesitate as a thought occurs to me. “Do you have anyone else who’ll stay with you until you can find replacements?” Hopefully ones who aren’t secretly super-criminals, I add to myself.

Comstock nods. “I can call the agency and have them send somebody over this evening, and then follow up.”

I want to tell him I’ll stay with him until somebody comes over, but I can’t. The Gypsy had commanded that I leave with the officers and their handcuffed prisoners, so I have to leave.

I nod. “Thank you.” I go, glad to be out of that house, get into my car and head back to the office. There’s a bottle of Scotch in my desk drawer, and after what I’ve been through I could use a slug or two from it. Especially since I’ve finally figured something out; the Gypsy said she’d built her mind shield to keep anybody else from messing with my head. She never said it’d keep her out.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Shawn,” Beryl Comstock says. “I would never have guessed what was really happening to my father. I’m so glad you figured it out and got those two slu—I mean scam artists—away from him.” She shakes her head. “This city is crazy.”

I nod. I don’t need to say anything. God knows, I agree with her.

I hand her my bill. She looks it over, and I tense up. I’ve had clients stiff me before.

“About your fee,” she says after a minute. “You didn’t quite run through your retainer, but it was worth it. And considering what you turned out to be dealing with, I think you’ve earned”—she smiles—“hazard pay.” She takes out her checkbook, writes out a check and hands it over. I look at it and gasp. It’s for a thousand dollars! On top of the retainer, that adds up to a pretty good deal for a couple of days’ work.

“Thank you,” I manage to get out.

I leave, happy about the big payoff if nothing else. I go down to the bank and deposit it. Now I should be able to pay my bills for awhile.

The next few weeks, everything goes back to normal. Celia and Ophelia get carted off to jail awaiting trial. The two lady cops who went with me to arrest the girls get commendations, or so I hear, but that’s about the size of it. Nobody asks just how they were able to arrest the girls, and the officers couldn’t tell anybody anyway; they don’t remember. They don’t even realize there’s anything to remember; all they know is that the arrest went off without a hitch.

Then one afternoon I get a phone call. I answer, and a familiar voice asks, “Is this the office of Macadam Shaw?”

Something seems to shift inside my head. “Yes, my Gypsy.”

“Very good, Macadam,” the Gypsy purrs. “You will come to visit me as soon as I end this call. You will come to me even though you know it is dangerous, because you believe it’s your own idea and because the danger excites you. You will believe that this time you are prepared for me so I cannot control you. You will want to have sex with me again, but you will believe that this time it’s of your own free will, because you’re prepared for me and you’re sure I will not be able to control you.

“You will hang up the phone and forget you received this call. You will then obey my instructions, even though you will not remember receiving them. Do you understand what I have asked you to do, and will you obey?”

“Yes, my Gypsy.” I nod. She’s doing it to me again, I realize, but I know I can’t do anything about it. I know I’m going to do what she said. I hang up the phone.

I blink.

All of a sudden I’m thinking about the Gypsy. I remember how sexy she looked, especially after she peeled off her clothes once we were alone together—and I remember how hot I got watching her do that. I remember what happened after that, too: how we screwed until all I saw were fireworks, just before I passed out. I want more of that, I say to myself, and grin. I don’t remember her calling me—not until later, but again, I’ll get to that.

Anyway, I think it over. Sure, the sex was great. The messing with my head is another story. I don’t want any more of that! But I tell myself I don’t have to worry; now that I know what I’m dealing with, I’ll be on guard so she can’t hypnotize me. Yeah, right.

So I put on my hat and head out to her place. I figure she’ll be there. She used to get out more often when she was more active in the super life, but these days she mostly concentrates on her, ahem, personal practice.

She’s waiting for me, of course. Like I said, I don’t remember the phone call, not then anyway, but after all she’s supposed to be able to see all kinds of things in that crystal ball of hers. I’m not sure I like the thought that maybe she’s using it to keep an eye on me in particular, though.

“Come on in, Macadam,” she says, her voice warm and inviting. She’s wearing a slinky strapless red dress slit up the left side to show a lot of leg, and what it shows is covered in fishnet stockings that disappear into glossy white high heels. I’m guessing I’m not the only one hot to trot right now.

So anyway, I go in. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly, I think, but I’m not really worried. After all, I’m ready for her this time. What could go wrong?

I find out fast.

“I’m so glad you’ve come back to see me,” purrs the Gypsy. “I like you, Macadam Shaw.”

I freeze. I can’t move at all, and I know I’m back under her power. I don’t know all that much about hypnosis, but I realize she’s turned my name into a, what’s it called, a trigger, so I’ll go back under any time I hear her say it.

“That’s right,” the sexy spellbinder says. “You’re back under my control. You obeyed the instructions I gave you over the phone perfectly.” She laughs. “But of course I knew you would.”

I don’t say anything. I’m about to ask what call she’s talking about, but of a sudden I remember. I feel my face get hot with embarrassment and anger.

I pull myself together and ask a question that’s been bothering me. “Why? Why are you doing this to me? You’re supposed to have been a super-heroine, not a villainess!” The words “heroine” and “villainess” sound corny, but the question isn’t.

The Gypsy knows that, of course, but she laughs anyway. “Really, Macadam! Look at the girls I captured for you. Look at Ecdysia!” I’d love to, like just about every other guy. My curvaceous captor laughs again. “Their sex lives are terrific, everyone knows that. They can have just about any man they want and do just about anything to, er, with him, at least until Omniman or the Virtue Society catches up with them.” She pouts. “Why should the bad girls have all the fun?”

I’ve never looked at things quite that way, and now isn’t the time to start. But it makes a weird kind of sense. I wonder briefly how many other supposedly upright super-dolls are using their powers to get a little action lying down.

“More than just me, I assure you.” She chuckles. “You think Miracle Woman uses her Voice of Submission just to catch crooks?”

I don’t know what to say about that. I’m pretty sure lots of guys who aren’t crooks fantasize about being controlled by MW. And since she can make people forget things, who’d know? Except her, of course.

The Gypsy must have been reading my mind again, or maybe she just sees it in my face, because she laughs again. “I’ll never tell!” she says. “Their private lives are their own, ahem, affairs, as long as they don’t make any trouble for me.” She smirks.

This puts the supers in a whole new light for me. Apparently even men and women of steel can have feet of clay. The scandal sheets would have a field day, not that they’re not already peddling plenty of rumors about supers just like every other kind of celebrity.

But what about me? Where do I fit in?

She pats my cheek. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s not as though I’m going to hurt you, darling.” The smirk broadens. “I’m sure you’ll, ahem, fit in just fine. We’ll both enjoy what I have in mind for you; it’s just that only one of us will be able to tell anyone—not that I intend to, of course. You’ll find that if you try to speak to anyone about it, or even write about it, you won’t be able to.”

I get what she’s driving at. The big head doesn’t like the idea of being anybody’s sex puppet. The little head couldn’t care less what the big head thinks.

The Gypsy knows, of course. She winks at me. “That’s right,” she purrs. “Now come along, Macadam. It’s time for us to do something more interesting than just talk.” She turns and heads away toward her bedroom. I come along.

You can guess the rest. And of course that wasn’t the last time. Every time she gets the itch, she can just call me on the phone, say my name and I’m hers. I can’t avoid her; I’ve still got a business, and no way to tell who’s calling or who’s left a message except by listening. I wish my phone had a way of showing the numbers of people who’ve called before I check the messages, but it doesn’t. As far as I know, nobody’s does. Maybe someday. And of course, just like she said, I can’t tell anybody what’s going on, and. I can’t write it down either. I’ve tried.

So here I am, spilling it all into my recorder. That works. I’m not sure why; after I found out I couldn’t write it down, I thought I was sunk. I only tried the tape recorder out of desperation. Maybe it’s because I’m only talking to a machine? Whatever.

I’ll put the tape someplace where someone will find it eventually. Maybe the library; they have recorders there, and if anyone finds it they’re sure to play it, especially if I put my name on the label, or maybe the Gypsy’s. And hope she doesn’t find out about it by reading my mind. I’ll just have to be careful not to give her a reason to look.

I really hate this town.